


Lending a Hand

by CoffeeMinx



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst and Humor, Arcade being Arcade, Awkward Boners, Awkward Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Unrequited to Possibly Requited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1448242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeMinx/pseuds/CoffeeMinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arcade and Boone are drinking Cass's moonshine in the presidential suite at the Lucky 38. They have the place to themselves. They get drunk. And surprising things happen.</p><p>
  <i>NOTE:  This was written as a gift for a dear person who requested this pairing. It's not my bailiwick so it's probably terrible, but I'd do anything for her, so I tried. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They'd been sitting in the kitchen, despite having the entire suite to themselves for once, sharing a bottle of Cass's moonshine. A particularly strong vintage, too. Not that there was enough time between the brewing and the drinking of Cass's product to merit a word like vintage.

But her moonshine was definitely the culprit in what happened...after. 

They'd been toasting their success in clearing out a nest of Fiends for Major Dhatri. Arcade had complimented Boone on his clean headshots - although one of them happened to take down Driver Nephi, which meant they didn't get the full bounty (but they weren't going to tell the Courier that). And Boone had complimented him on his shooting prowess, even though he didn't use a "real" gun.

Drinking to the health of each of their absent comrades had taken another several rounds. And then the drinking game based on how much shit the Courier made them carry...that had wrecked them--or at least Arcade. 

"Gotta hit the head," Boone announced, standing with relative ease. 

Arcade watched Boone walk away, watched the leisurely lope of his gait, admired his broad shoulders and how his muscular body tapered to a narrow waist, watched the way his ass.... The doctor shut his eyes. Why was he tormenting himself?

Boone was the type of man who'd often starred in his teenaged wet dreams. The type of man who generally did not want to know him, casually or biblically. That Boone did tolerate his company was an ongoing point of secret amazement. 

Boone put up with all his ten-dollar words and intellectual teasing, a performance that had started out as a defense against what he thought was silent disapproval. When he later discovered it to be silent self-loathing, he knew the last thing Boone wanted was pity so he hadn't changed his manner.

Arcade swirled the dregs of moonshine around the bottom of his glass, watching light glint off the liquid. Much as he might long for a more...physical side to their friendship, that was just not meant to be. This was an old road, and Manny had walked it before him.

Frail chiming from a pre-war clock brought Boone's continued absence to Arcade's fuzzy attention, and Arcade found himself vaguely worried. Maybe the head had hit back? Maybe Boone was more worse for drink than he looked. Maybe he'd fallen and couldn't get up. Arcade struggled to his feet and staggered toward the restroom. 

His couldn't have been a silent approach, but Boone was distracted. Very distracted.

Arcade found him leaning with his back against the far wall, a rosy glow tinging his lips and cheeks, grey t-shirt rucked up, his khaki trousers down around his ankles, and a truly magnificent cock gripped in Boone's moving right hand.

Arcade couldn't tell if Boone's eyes were open or shut. Damn the man for wearing sunglasses inside. Arcade's body wavered from side to side as conflicting orders meandered from his brain to his limbs. 

If Boone's eyes were closed, he could sneak away quietly. Or at least as quietly as he'd arrived. If Boone's eyes were open, he should apologize before slinking away. Although if Boone hadn't noticed him yet, maybe if he froze in place he could stay and watch.

Either the middle of the open doorway proved to be inadequate cover for an extra-tall blonde man in a bright white lab coat, or his failure to arrest his slight swaying attracted the sniper's attention.

Boone froze, and much more successfully. There was a long pause, during which Arcade could hear himself swallow like his muscles were the gears on a Mr. Handy.

"Don't get much time alone." Boone's quiet words seemed to be an explanation of why he was continuing to slowly stroke himself instead of grabbing for his trousers.

"No, we don't, do we? We're either sharing the suite with everyone the Courier meets or we're traipsing after her hither and yon. Believe me, I'm a hoard of pent up urges, too. Not that you need to worry. I mean, err, I'm not going to explode or anything. Obviously."

The alcohol was affecting his vision, because he could have sworn a ghost of a smile lingered at the corners of Boone's lips.

Perhaps it was the sight of that elusive mirth on those flushed lips, but something encouraged Arcade's aforementioned urges to rear their ugly heads in a tidal wave of yearning and force words out of his mouth. "I could help you with that." He nodded toward Boone's groin. "If you wanted." 

Had he really just said that aloud? He braced for impact, ready to be punched for his offer. And he'd deserve it. He was crossing a line in their friendship he'd vowed he'd never cross.

Instead Boone chuckled, a low gravelly sound. "Why would I need help?"

Like he was standing outside his body, Arcade saw himself smile innocently and reply, "Well, you're doing it wrong, for a start."

"Bullshit." 

"No, really, It's a common mistake. You didn't have an older brother, I take it."

The soldier snorted. "Neither did you."

"Ah, but I'm a doctor. I know all the secrets of _regio pudendalis_." He winked for good measure. It upped the creep factor significantly, but he couldn't stop himself. The moonshine pickling his brain seemed convinced this was the pinnacle of suavity and he could only watch his own actions in utter horror.

Luckily this debacle couldn't last much longer. Fixing his eyes on his boots, he waited for the inevitable verbal abuse. Boone should be telling him to get the hell out any second now. Yep. Any second... Now. Now? Maybe now. 

He'd leave. Eagerly. In fact, perhaps he should get a head start. Why wouldn't his legs move? Why wasn't Boone shouting? He snuck a quick glance at the sniper.

Boone had tilted his head and was gnawing ever so slightly at his lower lip. He didn't seem angry. In fact, he looked more uncertain than anything. Arcade had never seen Boone indecisive before, and it was rather adorable.

But that meant.... No. It couldn't be.

Was he considering...? Arcade's heart did a little flip. He tried to convince himself that the ex-soldier was merely trying to decide how to kill him without adding more stains to the walls—the Courier was very particular about stains—but, judging from the heat blazing through his innards, his body wasn't listening.

Instead it fed him images, just flashes, running though his mind. He could imagine lifting those spindly sunglasses from that rugged face to finally, finally discover Boone's eye color. Running a finger along his strong, wide jaw. Tenderly kissing that reddened, bitten lip. Oh, yes. His longing twisted into a decided ache. 

"Don't suppose...." Boone's voice trailed off. 

Arcade's pulse pounded in his temples, but he wasn't certain if that was due to excitement or moonshine. He was quietly amazed there was any blood left north of his waist. Couldn't Boone see the state of his trousers? He was a fraud. A fraud in a nifty white jacket. 

A doctor's jacket. Boone trusted a doctor's word, the way people implicitly trusted anyone with medical experience these days, what with the line between survival and death being so very thin. That Arcade was a Follower of the Apocalypse was mere icing on the Fancy Lad snack cake. Who'd expect a virtuous Follower to have a manipulative, not to say indecent, personal agenda? 

Good god, what was he doing? Taking advantage of a drunk, trusting, and none too bright on his best days, friend was something not even the Legion would stoop to. If Arcade kept to this course, he'd be developing an evil laugh and kicking puppies next. 

"Never mind. Sorry. I'm not usually like this. Or at least I like to think I'm not. Not so obviously self-serving, anyway. Must be the moonshine." Please be the moonshine. Not Enclave genes going beyond good health to grant him a truly devious streak. "I'll just...be in the next room." But only if I can't open a window and toss myself out.

"Wait...."

The gruff word hung in the air between them. Arcade could imagine ripples, like those across the surface of a disturbed pond, emanating from it and washing over him. Drowning him. Here was the opportunity he'd wanted, he'd dreamed about, and all he wanted to do was run.


	2. Chapter 2

Boone watched Gannon turn with the dragging reluctance of a guilty schoolboy to finally face him. A chuckle almost formed in his stomach. Had to be due to the light buzz in his brain from the alcohol warming his belly. Laughter was an unfamiliar urge these days. As rare as having the upper hand with the doctor.

"Show me." Now this was daring. But he liked the surge of power that expanded within him each time he watched Gannon flounder about for words. Words were the doctor's armor and weaponry and something he never won against. Until now.

"What?" The question was more of a dry gasp. Wide eyes blinked at him—repeatedly—from behind those solidly-framed glasses.

Keeping his face emotionless, Boone repeated the order. "Show me."

Gannon's mouth opened and then shut. He blinked some more. "I don't think...I mean...You probably wouldn't want...Errr, rather...."

"Thought you Followers didn't deny aid when asked?"

"Oh god." Gannon stepped forward then quickly retreated a pace. "You're...you're not really asking.... We've both had entirely too much to drink."

That was true. His original enjoyment of this advantage over the doctor was quickly turning into curiosity. A curiosity he shouldn't have. Although maybe it wasn't surprising. He was a red-blooded NCR male and no one had touched him since…. He was wincing even before her name formed in his brain. 

He'd never pollute her memory with a prostitute. And he couldn't...look for a girlfriend. That was betrayal. So he remained empty and tense. The Courier said he was cold. He wasn't. He was dead. His body just hadn't realized yet.

Really hadn't realized. His quickened pulse was shooting all his blood straight to his cock.

"You started this," he growled at Gannon, meaning the conversation and feeling like he'd admitted his excitement. 

"Right. I did." The doctor's cheeks had turned pink and it wasn't all from the moonshine. He licked his lips, just a quick swipe with the tip of his tongue. Like the way Carla used to.

The first time he'd seen Gannon, he'd thought of Carla. No resemblance physically, of course. But Carla and the doctor were both so…different. Clean and healthy and vibrant in a way the Wasteland sucks out of most living things. They both looked like they'd stepped out of photographs taken before the war. Shiny. Happy. Handsome. 

He grimaced at the thought. Yeah, Gannon was handsome. And intimidating, wielding syllables like weapons. Saying things in that godforsaken Latin when any half-way normal guy would just swear.

Gannon's eyes suddenly sparked. "I'll direct!"

Boone waited. There had to be an explanation for what the hell that meant coming.

"I'll direct you. I'm good at giving direction."

"Yeah. Right."

"I'll have you know I got top marks in Ordering People About. It's one of the required classes for a medical degree."

"Along with Looking Snooty?"

Gannon nodded, grinning. "And Poor Penmanship."

Taking direction started out well enough. He understood grip and pace. But the words. Who the hell said _frenulum_ anyway? 

The doctor moved closer to him with each order, like nearness improved translation. His hands would rise up to correct whatever mistakes he saw and freeze in mid-air before dropping back down. Flapping like a big white raven amid a series of "no" and "not"s. 

"No, that's...." Gannon closed the final gap between them with one step. Since when was he that tall? "Here. Let me." His hand reached out. Long fingers. Hesitated. Hovered. "I'll just...get you started." 

His voice had wavered at the end. Both a statement and a question. Gannon wasn't going forward with this if he wasn't on board. 

Was he on board? He wanted...he just _wanted_. That building ache inside needed release. He needed release. 

And this wouldn't be cheating on Carla. Hell, it probably wouldn't even be pleasant. He didn't deserve pleasant. 

Just something to take the edge off. Make sure his nerves were cool, so he could offer the Courier proper back up while he waited for death to find him.

He gave a quick nod. 

Boone wasn't sure what he'd expected. That his already excited dick would recognize Gannon's hand as clinical? Maybe need coaxing to respond? 

He certainly hadn't expected the eager lurch deep in his groin. The way he'd practically leapt in the doctor's hand. He swore softly as the thumb manipulating his foreskin teased out sensations he'd forgotten he possessed. Forgotten. Forgotten how…electric it felt to be touched. To have another's hand trailing along his skin. And not know what it would do next. 

Long strokes. Light pressure. Making him want. Making his need grow. Sharpen. Harder pressure. But too slow. His hips thrust, seeking more, and it was beyond his control to stop. 

Gannon's hand left him. Cruel bastard. He could feel words bubbling up, begging words, needing the stimulation to continue, needing him to continue when he suddenly realized what the doctor needed two hands for. 

Gently Gannon removed his sunglasses. He blinked at the change of light, stunned at himself that he was simply allowing this. The gesture somehow seemed more intimate than the mere stroking of his cock.

He watched the doctor hook his sunglasses safe in a coat pocket. Then he raised his eyes to meet Gannon's. Could barely tell his eyes were green the pupils were so big, big enough to shoot through. No pity there. No condemnation either. And not even a trace of mockery. Nothing but sheer fucking want.

He wasn't worth that level of intensity. Of any emotion. From anyone. He'd failed his wife, his child, and an entire swath of humanity. 

Head ducked, he pressed his forehead to the top of Gannon's shoulder. Puffs of air forced their way out of his lungs in hard staccato bursts. His hands clenched on Gannon's biceps. So many feelings swirled inside him, pelting his pounding heart, churning at the base of his spine.

All this from a hand job? Maybe what the doctor'd said wasn't all bullshit because damn Gannon was talented. The doctor was mumbling something now, too. Urgent, encouraging sounds. The words and the strokes jumbled his thoughts until all he knew, his only reality was a desperate craving for relief. 

Relief he didn't deserve, yet the doctor was telling him he did. He was saying...nice things. Compliments. Wrong. All wrong. But it was good. Felt so good. And he surrendered to the moment. 

To the acceptance. 

His eyes slid closed on a soft moan and he stopped fighting, allowed the tingling pleasure to sweep over him, and then it was there, the balls-tightening, electrifying joy thrumming up from his groin and radiating everywhere while his teeth gnashed together and his hips snapped and every bit of his life force seemed to be streaming in great ropey spurts from his cock.

 

Arcade helped Boone clean up. Well, Arcade did most of the work but he didn't mind. The sniper seemed almost dazed, and he'd done that to him. The hot sense of pride filling his chest might just burst a blood vessel or two. 

The last thing he did was return the sunglasses and Boone swiftly put them on. His cast of countenance returned to its familiar hard, expressionless lines and his posture was following suit. But now Arcade thought that a pity, because Boone was really much younger than his self-loathing let show. Life had a lot to answer for.

He backed away a few steps, uncertain how to proceed. The post-happy ending was always the tricky bit. The interested ones wanted a closer connection, including a possible discussion of past histories where you were supposed to "open up" more. The insecure ones wanted to punch your nose. Neither situation was desirable.

Boone rolled first one shoulder, then the other, very slowly, stretching his muscles, softly popping the joint. Arcade hoped this wasn't some sort of military preparation maneuver.

When he spoke, his quiet, gruff voice sounded unexpectedly normal. "That didn't mean anything." No anger. No awkwardness. Just a calm statement of fact.

"Of course not," Arcade quickly agreed.

"Right."

Figuring that brusque assent for a dismissal, Arcade moseyed toward the door. He felt quite pleased with himself. Not only had he accomplished something he never dreamed possible, and apparently without killing their working relationship, he'd stored up enough fantasy fuel for at least four months of onanistic delight. 

"Gannon."

The curt word froze him in his tracks. Had he seemed too jaunty? Had Boone taken offense? Would he soon find himself on the splattery end of a certain sniper's gun barrel?

"Yes?" Arcade tried to sound calm, but he didn't turn around - just in case he had to run for it.

Boone's laconic response was sweeter than any symphony to his ears, and made the Wasteland seem brimming with possibilities. "Next time. You got pointers on how to kiss?"


End file.
